


Slowly Heaved his Chest

by WaltD



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaltD/pseuds/WaltD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a Nero Wolfe romance-mystery by "Barbara Cartwheel"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slowly Heaved his Chest

**Author's Note:**

> A parody of blushingly over-wrought romance novels

**Slowly Heaved His Chest**

 

Chapter One

             Lady Pamela Hartwright‑Penzance gazed down at Sir Neville Preston‑Smythe with her large, luxuriously lashed violet eyes.  As she did, a shiver of fear shook her creamy white shoulders.  Lady Pamela noticed, as always, Sir Neville's strong, manly shoulders, his thick, tousled jet‑black hair, and something new: a silver and gold Cartier letter opener protruding from the middle of his back. "Oh dear," she thought, "whatever will I do?" as she began to realize the full implications of her discovery.  "The ball is tonight, and whom will I dance the minuet with now?"  Faintness overcame her, and she was forced to sit delicately on the rose‑coloured davenport.  She looked around the sitting room of Lord Backwash's New York townhouse, and wondered how she would ever handle this horrible disaster.  Eventually, though, practical girl that she was, she came to her senses and addressed her most pressing problem: she must find a new chaperon for the ball.  But who? She thought and thought, and thought some more, her bosoms heaving under the stress of this so important decision. She then remembered that her cousin Sophie had mentioned a young gentleman, not of her class in *any* way whatsoever of course, but a personable fellow and certainly able to dance.  But what was his name? Goodman...Goodson...no, Goodwin.  Archie Goodwin.  He lived as the amanuensis of a private detective, of all things, on West Thirty‑Fifth Street, but Lady Pamela steeled herself as she picked up the telephone directory, then reached for the crystal and brass princess telephone and dialed the number of Mr. Wolfe's brownstone with her pretty pink fingers.

            "Nero Wolfe's office, Archie Goodwin speaking."

            "Mr. Goodwin, I am so happy to have reached you.  My name is Lady Pamela Hartwright‑Penzance and...."

            "Ma'am, before you go any further, I should let you know that Mr. Wolfe is currently not taking on any cases..."

            "No, Mr. Goodwin, you misunderstand me.  I'm not calling for Mr. Wolfe; I want you." A pause.  "Mr. Goodwin, are you still there?"

            "Yes, ma'am.  How may I be of assistance?"

            "I have been invited ‑ in a way, I am the guest of honour, at a ball being held by Lord Backwash this evening at his townhouse at 999 Park Avenue.  I was to be accompanied by my cousin, Sir Neville Preston‑Smythe, but returning to the townhouse this afternoon I discovered that Sir Neville had been murdered."

            A pause.  "Have you called the police?"

            "Surely there's enough time for that later.  What I need is a new escort to the ball.  That's why I've telephoned you.  Would you be able to help me?"

            "Ma'am, I'll be there in twenty minutes.  But don't call the police until I get there."

            Lady Pamela thanked Mr. Goodwin and returned the telephone receiver to its brass receptacle.  What an odd man, she thought.  Fancy calling the police to a formal ball! She lifted her perfectly sculpted auburn eyebrows at the thought of a bobby in tie and tails attending one of HER father's balls.  Oh, well, she thought, there's nothing to it but to wait for Mr. Goodwin.  At least, she reflected, he is prompt.

  

Chapter Two

             Lady Pamela's pulse quickened and she swallowed with anxiety, causing only the lightest ripple of her delicate white throat.  She had been waiting for Archie Goodwin to save her from the worst fate possible; arriving at Lord Backwash's ball without an escort.  If only Sir Neville hadn't been so inconsiderate to die just before her special night!

            Suddenly, the doorbell rang.  She flew to answer it, knocking over Burton, Lord Backwash's trusty butler in the process.  She opened the door and was transfixed.  A man wearing a *brown suit* stood on the step, and introduced himself as Archie Goodwin!  She shuddered ‑ didn't he know not to wear a brown suit to a ball?  But of course, she reminded herself, she hadn't told him it was a white tie affair.  Perhaps in America business suits were acceptable at less formal occasions. Stupid, stupid gel, she chided herself while she let Mr. Goodwin in.  She did have to admit that the brown suit set off perfectly his carefully styled wavy sandy‑blond hair and his manly, rugged jaw.

            "Thank you for coming on such short notice.  Sophie said you were a reliable man.  Sir Neville had..."

            "Where's the body?  In that room?  If we don't call the police soon ‑ " and he swept past Lady Pamela through the open door of the sitting room.  She followed him, and stood beside him as he knelt over Sir Neville Preston‑Smythe's firm body. 

            "He's dead, all right.  He's probably been dead for about an hour.  Where's your phone?  I need to make a couple of calls."

            Lady Pamela directed him to the brass and crystal princess telephone, which sat to the right of the pink davenport in the corner of the room.  He eyed it as if he had never seen a telephone before. As he telephoned, she sat down beside him on the davenport.  She noticed his broad, strong shoulders, his blue eyes that spoke of romance, but only for her, and a strange bulge in his jacket. She ventured, "Is that a gun in your jacket, or are..."

            "Me.  Here."  Archie spoke into the delicate crystal receiver.  "One dead body.  Name of Sir Neville Something or other.  Stabbed in the back with some fancy thingamajig ‑ looks a lot like your bookmark."  A pause.  "Yes, sir.  I'll do that right away".  Archie hung up the receiver and turned to Lady Pamela, now seated on the davenport beside him.

            "I've just spoken with Nero Wolfe.  I'll have to talk to this Lord Backwash before I leave, but right now I'm calling the police."

            "But the ball is in two hours! How will you ever go home and change into white tie if the police are here! And why is it so important that we call them anyway? It must have been an accident or something ‑"

            But Archie had turned away from her and was again dialing.  After he telephoned the police, he turned to Lady Pamela.  His blue eyes looked deeply into hers as he held her hands in his.  Lady Pamela felt her knees weaken and her pulse flutter; could this be happening to me? she swooned.  He gazed deeply, searchingly into her perfect violet eyes, and asked, "Did you kill him?".

 

 Chapter Three

             Lady Pamela Hartwright‑Penzance batted the tears away from her large violet eyes and gazed despondently at the bars of the cell she was imprisoned in.  Oh, the ignominy!  The humiliation of being led away in handcuffs in front of her uncle, Lord Backwash, and that handsome young man she had called to replace Sir Neville as her escort to the ball stung her.  Archie Goodwin, for that was the man's name, seemed to enjoy the police's attention!  He had summoned them after finding Sir Neville Preston‑Smythe, her first cousin, dead on the floor of her uncle's sitting room.

            She had then not understood the gravity of the situation; she had realized her cousin had been murdered, of course, but she had not considered that the police would see her as a suspect. But they did, and three long days ago she had been led from Lord Backwash's Park Avenue townhouse in handcuffs, surrounded by reporters, police and gawkers, as if she was nothing more than a common criminal. How her father must be suffering! she thought, as she inspected her pink fingers and shuddered at the dirt that had accumulated under the once‑perfectly manicured nails. The matron had not allowed her to bring her compact, her makeup bag, her mirror, her nail file or even her maid with her. She was expected to shower and wash her person in the presence of many other women, some of whom stared at her every second she was in an undressed state. And she was not allowed to call her manicurist or even her hairdresser! Such barbarism! she thought as she tried to arrange her limp, greasy locks, which a few days ago had been luxuriant auburn curls. She had used her one telephone call and had reached her father at the Lords. Earl Penzance was shocked at what had happened, and had immediately retained counsel and investigative assistance to clear the matter up. Strangely, he had retained Nero Wolfe to investigate the matter, which meant that Archie Goodwin would be her champion!  She remembered his searching blue eyes, his luxuriant sandy hair that was only just not red, his rugged, manly jaw, his strong arms, and even his funny, upturned nose. On the day of the murder, he had looked into her eyes, deeply and searchingly, and she realized that until that moment she had had no real idea of the true meaning of being a woman. His gaze had brought a thrill to her that she had never felt before; a deep longing for his arms, his lips, his ‑‑ of course, he had then asked her if she was a murderer, but under the circumstances such a question was hardly inappropriate.   

            Suddenly, Lady Pamela looked up to find the cell surrounded by police officers. Lady Pamela could recognize an inspector named Cramer, whose barbarous habit of chewing cigars made her queasy, a lieutenant named Rowcliff who had the same unfortunate speech impediment as George VI, and, at the centre of the group, Archie Goodwin. Her pulse fluttered and she felt weak; but she stood up and walked over to the bars and asked Inspector Cramer what was to become of her. 

            "Lady, I have no idea. But Wolfe and Goodwin here think they know what happened to that Sir guy who got murdered at your house last week. They've set up a meeting of all the people involved, and they've asked me if I would allow you to attend as well. I said what the hell, so let's go."

            "Of course, just let me have a minute to finish my toilette."

            Inspector Cramer seemed at that moment to be interested in a spot on the ceiling; Lady Pamela hoped that he hadn't spotted some horrible creature lurking in the shadows. She quickly fluffed up her hair, arranged her clothes, and announced she was ready.  

            Soon, she had been deposited in a police cruiser and was on her way to meet the great Nero Wolfe. What would he be like? she wondered. She had always imagined private detectives to be like cowboys, with six‑shooters and horses. Would she find the rugged, care‑worn Nero Wolfe resting in his house, tired from a hard day on the range, sitting beside his saddle? She wondered what impression she would make, and tried to fix her hair and her face as well as she could in the rear‑view mirror of the police cruiser.  

 

 CHAPTER 4

             Lady Pamela Hartwright‑Penzance was ushered into the Brownstone's luxuriously appointed office.  She was mildly put out at discovering the red leather chair, the obvious focal point of the room, was already occupied, but with her quavering red lower lip touching the bottoms of her top, pearly white teeth, she acquiesced to being seated in one of the fine cloth covered yellow chairs since it was her Uncle, Lord Backwash in the coveted rich Corinthian Leather. 

            She seated herself demurely and lowered a glance at the famous but fat detective, and then slowly (but demurely) lowered herself further to the floor in a dead faint.

            "Archie!" Wolfe bellowed, "Is this the type of hospitality we extend to our guests?  A guest is a jewel upon the cushion of hospitality, not on the floor!"

            "Oh, my", Lady Pamela breathlessly breathed out.

            "Did I faint," she added demurely.  "I haven't had a thing to eat in three..."

            Wolfe raised himself up, walked to the door, dramatically turned to the collection of well appointed and tailored guests and stated in a bellowing, but rich and authoritative voice, directed towards the police contingent, "Barbarians!  Nothing further can or will be accomplished until this charming, but demure, young lady has had sustenance.  Fritz!  Bring a small snack of Camembert, Brie, Roquefort, some quince jelly, Malaga grapes, melon selections, Asian pears smartly carved into swans, and a Veuve Cliquot.  Nothing for the police."

            "Come my dear, let me show you my orchids while we wait."

            "Wolfe--" started Cramer, but they were gone and the elevator was sounding.

            "Goodwin," Cramer bellowed.  "What the heck was all that about?"

            "Inspector, you know how he is about food," Archie replied.

 

            Lady Pamela resumed her seat, this time in the red leather chair richly appointed with Corinthian leather.  Her Uncle, the other lords and the police sat awaiting Wolfe.

            "This will go much faster if I am allowed to talk without interruption, gentleman, and lady."  She looked up at him adoringly, thinking "He's not a cowboy at all--so strong and determined; I wonder if he can move quickly under all that bulk.  I'm sure he can, and he'd look absolutely adorable in white tie and tails."  Her bosom heaved breathlessly at the thought.

            Wolfe continued, "This is obviously a simple case.  There was no one else in the apartment, you say?  Ah, but there was.  Weakened and enfeebled as he was, so much so that when Lady Pamela merely brushed him aside, he fell over.  Yes, Burton and Sir Neville Preston‑Smythe had quarreled, and Burton had stabbed Sir Neville but had injured himself as well thus allowing this petite, but demure, young lady to overwhelm him merely by passing."

            "Well, Inspector, he's standing there; take him away!"

            Archie looked on in amazement.  Wolfe moving his considerable bulk with alacrity and charisma swooped around the desk and took the beautiful (but demure) Lady Pamela's delicate hand and said gently while her bosom heaved, "Come let us take another look at the orchids, my dear."

            "Those deep brown eyes," she thought.  How inquisitive and intelligent.  I'll bet he could give Stacey and Binch a run for their money at Whist.  And that luxuriant dark brown hair, and if I could get him to loose a little weight, although he carries it so well....

            Fritz, his handsome Gallic features caught up with a frosty look as only a man used to running a household could, blanched as he cleaned up the small but sumptuous repast; he thought he heard Lady Pamela, as she strode out of sight, say to Wolfe as Wolfe said a good night, "Oh, Nero, do you know the Waltz?"

            Archie, with his strong blue eyes and wavy sandy hair was non-plussed which was unusual for him since he didn't know what it meant, thought to himself, "So, the Butler did it....";


End file.
